On this
he became aware that he was being watched attentively by a
fellow-traveller opposite to him, an elderly gentleman with a large head
and iron-grey hair.
"My young friend," said he, good-naturedly, "you really must not carry on
conversations with people in the sun, while you are in a public railway
carriage."
The old gentleman said not another word, but unfolded his _Times_ and
began to read it. As for Ernest, he blushed crimson. The pair did not
speak during the rest of the time they were in the carriage, but they
eyed each other from time to time, so that the face of each was impressed
on the recollection of the other.
CHAPTER XLV
Some people say that their school days were the happiest of their lives.
They may be right, but I always look with suspicion upon those whom I
hear saying this. It is hard enough to know whether one is happy or
unhappy now, and still harder to compare the relative happiness or
unhappiness of different times of one's life; the utmost that can be said
is that we are fairly happy so long as we are not distinctly aware of
being miserable. As I was talking with Ernest one day not so long since
about this, he said he was so happy now that he was sure he had never
been happier, and did not wish to be so, but that Cambridge was the first
place where he had ever been consciously and continuously happy.
Pages:
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338